


The White Star of Liberty

by Ellidfics



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: American Revolution, Biblical References, French Revolution, M/M, The Scarlet Pimpernel - Freeform, Wakanda, guillotines, period-typical racial attitudes, references to the guillotine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidfics/pseuds/Ellidfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris in 1793 is a dangerous place, even for Americans.  So why has Anthony Stark, hero of the American Revolution, risked his life to visit a man under suspicion of treason?  What does the mysterious African country of Ouqanda to do with the French chemist Lavoisier?  Who is the tall, quiet, fair-haired officer who guards the American Legation, and what has he to do with the sudden disappearances of prisoners?  And what secret from years past threatens Anthony himself?</p><p>Anthony Stark does not know the answers to these questions, but he is determined to find out...no matter the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Title Page

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Woad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woad/gifts).



> This story was based on Woad's wonderful art - [go, take a look!](http://tinctoriawoad.tumblr.com/post/144804765091/2016reversebangteamnova) \- as well as Baroness Orczy's delightful Scarlet Pimpernel books. The books were some of my favorites as a teenager, and I hope I've done them credit in this story.


	2. Colonel Hamilton Writes A Letter

_From a missive by Alexander Hamilton, to his very good friend John Laurens, written sometime during the autumn of 1780. Certain passages were redacted by Hamilton’s son John Church Hamilton when the letter was edited for publication._

_….that foul traitor Arnold, who sought only glory and not the good of the nation. He has fled to the British side and taken his charming wife with him, and rumor hath it that His Majesty, deny’d the prize of West Point, will put the traitor in charge of the forces amassed against us. That his false character and eagerness for gold may not serve him well commanding King George’s men is a lesson that I do believe he will learn in due time._

_Alas, the downfall of Arnold was not without cost to our side. As you know, he was to hand over the key to the Hudson to the Hessian commander, Baron von Strucker. The worthy Baron fled westward toward the lands of the Six Nations when Arnold’s perfidy was revealed, in hopes of stirring up more mischief amongst the Indian hordes and avenging General Burgoyne, and General Washington sent Captain Rogers and his men in pursuit, Captain Rogers being fluent in their language. I have few details of what befell our men, but word has come that there was a battle near the gorges of Ellensville, where the air is so cold that some foolish locals aver that it is an entrance straight to the wastes of Hell. Baron Strucker was taken by our men and now chafes at his captivity, to the point that General Washington dare not give him his parole, but the losses on both sides were fearful; Juniper the Younger succumbed to his injuries, whilst Colonel Fury, head of the rifle company that accompanied Captain Rogers, lost an eye, and their young forward scout, Private Barnes, lost an arm and may yet lose his life._

_Worst of all, Captain Rogers himself was lost in the gorge at the height of the battle, whilst battling with Baron Strucker’s aide Schmidt. Both men tumbled off a precipice in the depths, and despite long search no trace was found of either. Schmidt, a man of evil repute, is not to be mourned (Strucker himself feared the man, tho’ he’ll not say why) but Captain Rogers was a man destined for greatness in peace and war, and to lose such a one in his prime is a grievous blow. General Washington grew silent when Colonel Fury brought the sad news and did not speak again for some time, and he insisted upon telling Major Stark, Captain Rogers’ [redacted with black ink and words “this cannot be published” written next to the passage in the hand of John Church Hamilton]. He wishes this kept in the closest confidence, as Captain Rogers’ deeds had freshened the hopes of many, and there is talk that Lieutenant Naslund may be asked to take command of Captain Rogers’ men and assume his nom de guerre when he returns from the South._

_Major Stark has taken to drink at this dreadful news, or so I am told. I have invited him to dine with me in hopes of lifting his spirits with fresh news from New York, as conveyed by Miss Schuyler in her most recent letter, as he is the finest military engineer in America and his assistance will be crucial to the support and victory of our cause -_


	3. Arrival at the Rue de la Planche

“I must say, Mr. Stark, you have picked a most unauspicious time to visit France,” said His Excellency Minister Morris, easing himself back in his chair and setting his keen gaze upon his visitor. “The situation is perilous to anyone who is not on the side of the Revolution, and even some of those who support it.”

“It is a sad state of affairs,” agreed Mr. Stark. Tall, fresh-faced, and sporting the neatly trimmed beard that had set the fashion amongst the young bloods of Philadelphia and New York, he would have been the very model of American manhood had it not been for a wound near the heart that had nearly taken his life during the Battle of Monmouth. “One would have thought they would have spared the ladies from execution at the very least.”

“We are in agreement upon this,” said the good Minister. He shifted again in his seat, hoping to ease the ache from his crippled leg. “I exerted my best efforts to save her late Majesty the Queen – alas that a mother should be the subject of such slanders! - but the Revolution would not be denied. It is a dark time, a dark time indeed, with none above suspicion or beyond the reach of the new laws.”

Mr. Stark sighed then, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the coffee Minister Morris's aide had set before him. The aide, like the greater portion of the American legation's staff, was also American, as local affairs were in such turmoil that employing a son or daughter of France might well lead to catastrophe for the interests of the United States. "Never did I think such a fate would befall this land. That a friend of liberty such as General Lafayette had to flee for his life is beyond comprehension."

"Indeed," said Minister Morris. He waited for the aide to withdraw before tasting of his cup. "Tell me again why you've come to France, sir. Your letter of introduction mentioned visiting your fellow men of science, but such are scarce to be found in these days."

Mr. Stark emulated his host before speaking. "That is indeed my intent, Minister Morris. I have long been a correspondent of Monsieur Antoine Lavoisier, the great chemist and natural philosopher, and as I lately had business in London, I hoped to meet him in person." 

He hesitated, then set his cup down and sat up straight in the neatly upholstered chair Minister Morris had provided for his comfort. "Tell me, is he well? Hard though it is to credit, the rumors reaching London have been most disquieting as to the safety of him and every other man of learning and science. If there is aught I can do - "

Minister Morris shook his head. "Whatever you have heard is more likely to be true than not, Mr. Stark. Anyone with the slightest connection to the former government, the Church, or the universities is at risk, whether he be innocent as a babe in arms. Truly, it has been a time of terror for even the most honest of citizens."

"Even Monsieur Lavoisier?" asked Mr. Stark, brows furrowing as he leaned across the tea table. He paused as his sleeve brushed against a tiny vase filled with red and white flowers cunningly constructed of fine silk. "Surely they see the value of his work."

"He still walks free, but not for long," averred Minister Morris. "You may know him as a man of science, but he is from a long line of distinguished and wealthy civil servants. He worked for many years as a tax collector to support his experimental pursuits, and though he is well known as the mildest of men, his former profession has been enough to mark him as an enemy of the people in the eyes of many. His arrest and condemnation is only a matter of time."

"That he should be at risk is almost beyond comprehension," said Mr. Stark, flushing slightly. "Why, our Revolution prized the learned! Dr. Franklin, Dr. Rush, even my humble self - our only fear was falling into the hands of the British regulars, not a faction of our own men."

The firelight cast deep shadows across the Minister's even, pleasant features. "This is why I urge you to take care when dealing with the Revolution, Mr. Stark, for all that your intentions are noble. The madness that has overtaken this country is nothing like our Revolution, nothing at all. You might save Lavoisier if you attempt to intervene, or your own neck might be shaved by the Razor of the Republic."

Mr. Stark made an impatient gesture. "I am an American, sir, not a citizen of this blighted land. That must count for something, even now."

"Not as much as one might assume," retorted the Minister, thinning his lips. "Your late mother was the child of a French _comte_ , was she not? That could be used against you should your actions attract the wrong sort of attention, American or no."

Mr. Stark set his jaw at the mention of his family background. It was a sad tale, and one he did not like to recall. "My grandfather I never met, nor have I ever wished to. The man was cruel, and forced my mother and father to flee for their lives to our shores, where they could marry and live untouched by the shadow of tyranny. I am American to the core, sir, and scorn any who think otherwise!"

Minister Morris held up his hands in placation, only the faintest tremor on the right hinting at the old injury that had nearly cost him his dominant limb. "That would not be me, Mr. Stark. I have no doubt of your loyalty and patriotism. I tell you this only as a warning: the agents of the government are merciless and fanatical in the pursuit of traitors. Be ever on guard against them, especially the one called Thibault Lapierre. He is not a man to be crossed when he is on the - "

A brisk knock on the door of Minister Morris's study cut him off in mid-sentence. He frowned at the interruption, then braced himself upon the arms of his chair, positioned his artificial leg, and pushed himself to his feet. Mr. Stark also rose - it was nearly time for him to return to his lodgings in any case - but held back as the Minister stumped over to see why their colloquy had been disturbed.

"Minister Morris?" The door opened and a young man clad in an American Army uniform stepped into the room. "The hour grows late and I wondered if your visitor might need an escort to his lodgings. The _sans-culottes_ are abroad and it is not safe for civilians on the streets this close to curfew."

"Thank you, Captain Grant. I think that an excellent idea." Minister Morris beckoned to Mr. Stark, who stood staring at the newcomer. "This is Mr. Anthony Stark, of New York. He is in Paris on business and has come to pay his respects - "

"Stephen?" Mr. Stark, all trace of color gone from his cheeks, stepped forward, hands extended. There was a terrible, hopeful brilliance in his gaze. "You live? How can this be? General Washington gave me the sad news himself! Where have you been these long - "

"Stephen?” A faint but unmistakable frown appeared between the officer's brows, and his face went utterly still. A lock of thick, fair hair came loose from his carefully tied queue to fall across his forehead, all but concealing eyes of a singularly clear and penetrating blue. "I fear you are mistaken, sir. My Christian name is Roger."

"But - " Mr. Stark swallowed and let his hands fall back to his sides. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the hearth as his features went blank and what looked very akin to hope died in his eyes. "Your face - the resemblance is - "

Minister Morris looked from one man - tall, broad through the shoulder and chest, narrow at the waist, the very picture of strength and youthful vitality - to the other - pale and staring, eyes fixed upon the other as if he dared not believe what and who stood before him. "Mr. Stark? Are you well?"

"Indeed, the journey from America can be troublesome," said Captain Grant. His voice was deep enough to carry across a battlefield, yet smooth and cultured enough for the ballroom. "We have room to spare should you need to spend the night recovering from your travel."

Mr. Stark rubbed his hand across his brow, the long graceful fingers trembling slightly. His gaze did not waver from Captain Grant, who stood frowning in mild puzzlement, although he audibly drew breath at the invitation to lay himself down. "I beg your forgiveness, Captain, for the confusion. It's simply that you - you could be twin to a dear friend and comrade lost during our War for Independence. I was startled to see what I thought a man long lost, nothing more."

Captain Grant inclined his head a fraction. "You need not apologize, sir," he replied, and was there the slightest hitch in his voice? "It is easy to mistake one thing for another after the passage of time."

"Yes, yes, that is true," said Mr. Stark. He dabbed at his face with a fine linen handkerchief. "Again, my apologies. The man I knew was like a brother to me, and I would give much to see him once again, nothing more."

A shadow passed across the other man's face, only for an instant. "You are not the only man to lose a dear friend in the war, Mr. Stark, not at all. You have not given offense."

There was another knock at the door, this one slightly hesitant. Captain Grant set his jaw and opened it to reveal two of the Legation's military guards, one ruddy and fair, the other dark complected and clearly of Creole blood. "And here is your escort to your lodgings, Mr. Stark. This is Private Monroe, late of Virginia, and Sergeant Wilson of Philadelphia. They will see you safely home."

"Indeed, I remember Sergeant Wilson from the war," said Mr. Stark, regaining his composure enough to smile at the dusky sergeant. "You fought under Colonel Laurens, did you not?"

"I did indeed," said Wilson in the softly lilting accent of his native islands. "It is good to see you again, Major Stark, especially after such an interval."

"Well, if this is not a happy coincidence!" exclaimed His Excellency Minister Morris, who had observed the exchange between his captain and his visitor without comment. "You could not be safer hands, Mr. Stark, unless Captain Grant himself were to see you home."

Captain Grant opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head. "I am needed elsewhere tonight, Your Excellency, but have no fear. Mr. Stark will come to no harm while my men are on guard."

"I have no doubt of that," said the Minister briskly, and gestured to Mr. Stark. "I bid you good night, and safe travels. Should you need my assistance, either as representative of our country or as a private citizen, you have but to ask."

"I will keep that in mind," said Mr. Stark. He took his place between the waiting soldiers, and if he took pains to avoid touching the captain, it was merely because the doorway was narrow and the captain large. "Your Excellency - Captain Grant - good night!"

Neither the Captain nor the Minister spoke as Mr. Stark and his guardians took their leave. At last Minister Morris broke the heavy silence. "That was a most - peculiar - incident."

Captain Grant brushed his unruly hair back into place. His eyes were clouded and his face pale as he stared down the hallway where Mr. Stark had passed. "He must have held his friend in high esteem, to be so moved by mere coincidence."

"So it would seem," murmured the good Minister, and he thought of the packet that had come directly from General Washington’s hands on the same ship that had brought Captain Grant and his men to join the staff of the Legation. Was this a mere trick of fate, or something more? "So it would seem."


	4. Interlude the First:  Excerpt from article published in L’Ami du Peuple, dated 11 February, 1793 and signed by Jean-Paul Marat.

… short while after the end of Louis Capet, ci-devant King of France and enemy of all who love freedom and equality, rumor came to my ears of a threat to the people of Paris. I gave it no credence, as the story seemed to be more the stuff of fancy and a fevered brain than anything that could happen in our land, and so I returned to my efforts on behalf of the people rather than investigate further.

To my dismay, I have learned in the last few weeks that the rumors were true. For it seems that someone, a man or men of courage, skill, and deadly intent, has been spiriting traitors to the Revolution, aristocrats and non-juring priests, from their richly deserved confinement and conveyed over the border to our enemies in Austria and Britain. There these enemies of the fatherland are received with joy by those who wish the downfall of the Republic, and spend their days ceaselessly plotting to install the baker’s boy upon his father’s blood-soaked throne.

Little is known about this guileful force for evil, save only that he leaves behind tiny drawings of red wildflowers. I have heard claims that he is an Englishman who works with the aid of a group of equally fearsome companions to cheat the people of the justice demanded by the laws of our land. Le Mouron Rouge, he calls himself, and any who doubt the need for the watchful eye of the Friend of the People should remember that this man has saved the Comte de Tournay and all his family from their just desserts, along with many others.

If that were not enough to rouse the anger of the patriot, word has come to me that this Englishman has been joined by a second ‘liberator’ of the condemned. This man, reputedly an American of great size and strength, has been working in parallel with the English aristocrat to abduct the imprisoned and see them safely on their way to the New World. His sign is a white star, such as the Americans have on their flag, which should stand ever for freedom, not oppression of the poor and the needy. 

Even less is known about L'Etoile Blanche than Le Mouron Rouge, but it is believed that he was a companion of the traitor Lafayette who seeks somehow to avenge his friend’s disgrace by meddling in the affairs of the Fatherland. His mark is a white star, and I can say with confidence that it is every bit as feared among the jailers of our land as the scarlet pimpernel of the English.

Citizens who know the location and identity of these men should contact Citoyen Deputy Thibault LaPierre. This true patriot has sworn that he will not rest until these men are in custody and can face the justice of the Republic. Vive la France! Vive la Revolution!


	5. An Unexpected Meeting

True to his word, the next afternoon saw Anthony (for so we should call him, it being his preferred appellation) calling upon the great chemist Lavoisier at his home at 243 Boulevard de Madeleine. This was not his famous laboratory, of which Miss Foster has written so eloquently, but humbler lodgings where he could keep himself and his family as they strove to ride out the worst of the Terror. His loyalty to France had never wavered – even as the Republic stripped him of home, equipment, and honors he had worked faithfully to draw up plans for a new educational system while seeing to his duties at the Bureau of Consultation – yet his past work as a hated tax collector had irreparably stained his reputation in the eyes of those now held power. 

Anthony had heard tell of this in London when he called upon others of a scientific bent, but he was little prepared for the reduced circumkstances in which he found Lavoisier and his good wife. The lady greeted him most kindly and bade her maidservant set out tea and what dainties could still be procured, yet her lips were pale and her sweet voice thinned by strain and worry as she poured him a steaming cup. Lavoisier himself wore the uniform of the National Guard, as he was soon due to stand watch near the Arsenal where he now did what work he could. He was less visibly moved by their plight, but he had ever been a man of even temperament.

Pleasantries exchanged and compliments paid to the good lady, Madame Lavoisier then took her leave to resume her duties as mistress of the home. Anthony waited for the door to shut behind her before uttering a sound.

"My friend, are you well?" he ventured at last, his French fluent if bearing the traces of an older time. "Never did I think to find your dear wife so agitated, nor yourself reduced to - " he waved at the modest sitting room, so different from Lavoisier's former state " - to this! Surely you - "

"My wife and I have all that we require," replied Lavoisier. He raised a finger to his lips, then swiftly gestured at the very walls and waited for Anthony's nod of acknowledgement that not even the most private of homes was safe from the Terror. "We have not as much as once we had, but we have found contentment in our work and our lives together. Others have far less, so what need for complaint?"

"I am glad to hear of this," said Anthony, his eyes sweeping the plain little room, which doubled as parlor and study, and the meager fire that scarce kept out the autumn's chill. A bouquet of tiny red flowers, cunningly made of silk, in a small silver vase etched with a five pointed star, was the only homely note he could see, and its presence spoke much of how a great man and a gracious lady had been brought low by fate. 

He frowned, then quickly drew out a small pocket notebook and scribbled a note in French with one of the quaint self-inking pens he had developed for his own use during the weary days spent taking notes as part of his duties as secretary to to the New York delegation to the Constitutional Convention. "I should know better than to trust mere rumor."

He handed over note and pen and waited for Lavoisier to read the message: _What can I do to assist you and your family?_

The older man's eyes widened slightly before he swiftly wrote his reply, raising his voice to cover the scratch of nib upon paper. "Your friendship is ever enough, _mon ami_. Now, tell me of your work in America! I have heard much of your work from our friend Priestly and others. Is it true that you will be working with Monsieur - forgive me, _Citoyen_ L'Enfant in designing the new capital?"

"Only certain of the buildings and practical matters," demurred Anthony, relaxing once Lavoisier had finished his writing and handed over notebook, pen, and an envelope he had produced from his uniform. _Convey this to Dr. MacLain, the metallurgist of Pittsbourg. It is of great import_ , he had written, and Anthony nodded before secreting the packet in his breast. He quickly wrote out a reply and handed it over. "I have left the layout of the streets and placement of the buildings to those with skill in such matters. I am a practical engineer, not a visionary like the worthy L’Enfant, which is why they have set me to work draining the malarial swamps and lowlands.”

Lavoisier shifted in his chair, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation at the faint _creak_ from what had been bought second-hand from what remained of his funds. _What of you and your wife?_ “So you say, but our correspondence over the years proves you far too modest. Your plans to bridge the river between New York and Brooklyn are sheer genius – ah ha, do you not protest! Those with eyes to see know well the truth.”

“You do me too much credit,” Anthony replied, relaxing his guard enough to chuckle at his friend’s reaction. He paused as Lavoisier wrote a final reply and handed it over for his perusal. _My wife will be safe no matter what. I am a patriot and will make shift for myself._ “Could you but hear L’Efant himself, you might well say otherwise – “

So their talk continued, until the tea was drunk and the little cakes Madame Lavoisier had contrived to serve consumed to the last crumb. Had it not been for the humble room, and the packet securely resting by the American’s heart, one might have thought it but an afternoon’s meeting between two old friends, with no sword of Damocles ready to descend upon the householder and all he loved. Chemical reactions, mutual friends such as Mr. Priestly and the late and much-missed Dr. Franklin, the fascinating work on galvanic reactions being done in Italy – they spoke of all this and more, and had not the time come for Lavoisier to take his place on watch they might have spoken longer still.

At last Lavoisier stood, retrieved all the notes they had privily exchanged, and consigned them to the hearth to be reduced to harmless ash. “It is time for me to take my farewell. My duties as guard and citizen call.”

“If you should have need of anything more – “:began Anthony, taking a step forward.

“I assure you, _mon ami_ , that your friendship is all I require,” responded the great chemist. He drew Anthony into an embrace and kissed him swiftly in the French fashion upon the cheeks. He then strode into the hallway to bid farewell to his faithful wife, for the hour was indeed late. 

Anthony waited by the front door as his host and wife exchanged a tender moment, carefully adjusting his queue and arranging his cloak about his shoulders to ensure protection from the winds and cold. It was not a new garment – indeed, it dated from America’s own struggle for freedom and tyranny, and bore the scars and stains of long use – but he cherished it for its warmth and comfort and would wear no other.

At length husband and wife had taken their leave, and Anthony followed Lavoisir into the street. A band of ragged women, doubtless homeward bound after a hard day of supervising the executions at the Place de la Revolution, trudged down the muddy cobbles, chattering about how Monsieur de Comte had squealed and the Abbess of St. Maur de Hattonchatel had pretended to pray as they faced the executioner Sanson. One, young and still pretty beneath her filth, pointed at the men with a scowl, then burst out laughing at a vulgar remark from her friends and tossed her flowing dark hair over her shoulders with a mocking little wave at Anthony. 

Lavoisier tensed until they had passed before turning to Anthony and earnestly grasping his hand. “Have a care, my friend,” he murmured, too softly for any but the American to hear. “The women are the worst of all. Their actions toward the late Queen and her beloved friend Lamballe were little better than the work of fiends.”

“So I have heard,” said Anthony, unable to resist a glance at the _tricoteuses_. “That girl, the one who sneered at us - what know you of her?“

“Avoid her at all costs,” Lavoisier said, jaw tightening despite his outward control. “Soleil de Viellesse is the name she uses today, to commemorate the setting of the royal sun, but to others she is the bane of the land. Her father was a minor official who fell afoul of the late Queen, and she has despised all things aristocratic ever since. None know how many innocents she has accused of treason and sent to their deaths, but the number is not small. Should she approach you, make yourself scarce!”

Anthony shivered at the memory of Soleil de Viellesse’s cold and penetrating eyes. “I will, my friend. On that you have my word.”

“ _Bien_ ,” said the chemist. He straightened and released Anthony’s hands as the clock struck the hour. “I must away, to stand my watch. Farewell, and safe travels to your native land.”

“Safe travels to you as well.” Anthony watched as the other man strode off toward the Arsenal, back straight and uniform crisp as if he were on parade. His hand went to cover his heart for the briefest of instances, even though he knew the packet for was safe. “God bless and keep you safe, now and always.”

He had scarce turned his face toward the Rue de la Planche and the safety of his lodgings when a man, lean and handsome in a way that yet spoke of hard living and much drink, stepped out of the shadows into his path. “You speak of God, citoyen? Better to speak of Reason, and the Revolution!”

“Forgive my ignorance, good sir,” said Anthony, slipping into the harsh accent of one raised in the New World who learned French as an adult. “I am but lately come to your lands and meant no harm. To the Revolution indeed!”

The other smiled just enough to reveal the tips of his teeth. “Of course. You are American?”

Anthony swallowed. Lavoisier had warned him of the vengeful girl, but his soldier’s instincts told him to beware equally of this man. “Anthony Stark, of New York. May I have the honor of knowing your name, good sir – I beg your pardon, good citizen? As I said, I have but lately come to Paris.”

“I am Thibault Lapierre, accredited agent of the Committee of Public Safety,” came the soft, polite, yet still ominous reply, and Anthony could not help but recall the warning of Minister Morris. “It is fortunate that we have met so soon after your arrival, as all too many newcomers find themselves making the acquaintance of the wrong sort of person. I trust that I am in time to give you proper advice.”

“Wrong sort of person? Indeed, that is far from my intent,” said Anthony, contriving to laugh a little bit, as if in scorn at the mere thought of such a transgression. “I scarcely know a soul outside of Minister Morris and his staff.”

“And yet I saw you speaking on familiar terms with Citizen Lavoisier, the ci-devant _fermiere_ ,” said Lapierre. He leaned forward, close enough that Anthony had to restrain a cough at the strong odor of snuff clinging to his plain yet beautifully cut clothing. “How came you to know this man, let alone spend hours dawdling over a dish of tea in his very home?”

Anthony’s heart fluttered in his breast, and he breathed deeply until it had returned to its normal steady beat. “We are both men of science, Citizen Lapierre, who struck up a correspondence soon after my country’s revolution thanks to the suggestion of our mutual friend Benjamin Franklin. I was lately in London on business and realized that it would be remiss on my part not to pay my respects in person, as I rarely travel abroad. His work on gases is unparalleled.”

Lapierre’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the mention of the good Dr. Franklin. Even now, in the depths of the Revolution, America’s first representative to France was beloved for his good humor and humble ways. “On that I will have to take your word, as I know little of natural philosophy, Citizen – what did you say your name was? Stark? That is an unusual name for an American. Why, I might have taken you for German!”

“Like so many of my fellow countrymen, I was born to parents who came to our shores in search of a better life than could be found in Europe,” retorted Anthony, stung by the suggestion that his name was somehow not suitable for a son of Columbia. “My father hailed from Karlsruhe, my mother from your own land. They made their home in America and lived there in great contentment for many years. Had they not perished in a carriage accident soon after the Battle of Lexington I have no doubt they would have been proud to call themselves ‘Americans.’”

“As do all of us who dwell there,” said a third voice, clear and strong and welcome as the sun after a long cold winter. “My own parents came from Ireland to Philadelphia when I was but a dream of the future, yet none would say that I am anything less than an American. Surely you remember our discussion on this very matter a fortnight ago, Citizen Lapierre?”

Anthony drew in a quick, sharp breath at the voice so similar to one lost forever, and turned to behold Captain Grant, Sergeant Wilson and a half dozen other soldiers to his rear, standing calmly to Citizen Lapierre’s right. The Captain inclined his head in polite greeting. 

“How could I forget, Citizen Captain Grant? Your beliefs are commendable, if perhaps not applicable to France.” Lapierre took a step backwards and contrived to smile at the interruption. “Might I ask why you have strayed so far from your Legation on this chilly eve?”

“Minister Morris sent me in search of Mr. Stark,” said Captain Grant. A silver gorget worked with a single engraved star flashed at his throat as he settled his right hand upon his sword hilt. “He wishes to know if Mr. Stark would consent to dine with him this evening, as his table will surely offer better fare than that found in the taverns.”

The quick and unmistakable sounds of the _Ça ira_ , the patriotic song that had quickly become a celebration of slaughter and destruction, floated down the street in their direction. Anthony tensed as he recognized the girl Soleil de Viellesse and her fellow patriots flocking about an elderly woman who had made the grave mistake of venturing out of doors without a tricolor scarf covering her snowy head. The goodwife, mumbling and protesting that she had harmed no one and was but on her way to visit an ailing friend, visibly shrank as the younger women pressed about and urged her to sing.

Captain Grant’s eyes narrowed at the sight, and he blew out a breath before gesturing at his men. He drew himself to his full height and nodded coldly to Citizen Lapierre. “If you will allow Sergeant Wilson the honor, Mr. Stark, he will see you safely across the river to the Legation. I fear I will be delayed.” 

“I am no coward,” said Anthony, bristling at the suggestion that he might need a guard. “I am fully capable of - “

“The streets are not safe these days for strangers, Mr. Stark,” said the Creole before Anthony could continue. He held up a hand to restrain Anthony as Captain Grant, heedless of the danger, strode up to the old dame, spoke sharply to Citizeness Soleil, and offered the former his arm. “Captain Grant meant no insult, of that I am quite certain.” 

“Not to Citizen – Stark, was it?” Lapierre planted surprisingly fine, surprisingly clean, hands upon his hips and stared as the American officer led the old woman away from the _tricoteuses_. Citizeness Soleil was glaring daggers at the American’s straight back and impeccable uniform, but one of the others, a delicate blonde who seemed almost too clean for such a gathering, had distracted the rest with yet another chorus of _Ah! Ça ira, Ça ira, Ça ira!_ in a sweet and ringing voice. “Or was it something else? Your face reminds me of someone I once knew, from years long past.”

“You heard me well the first time,” retorted Anthony. “If I resemble an old friend, it is pure coincidence, nothing more.”

Lapierre looked him up and down, then nodded abruptly and drew his own cloak tightly about his shoulders. “In that case, Citizen Stark, I wish you a good night, and a pleasant stay in our city.”

“I anticipate nothing less,” said Anthony. He waited for the lean dark figure to disappear into the dark before turning to Sergeant Wilson. “The Minister wishes me to dine with him?”

“So Captain Grant said.” Sergeant Wilson’s dusky features softened as he noticed Anthony’s anxious glance in the direction last taken by the good Captain. “Do not worry about our chief. He knows the city well and is in no danger.”

“I wonder if that can be said of anyone.” Anthony shook his head as if trying to clear it of the memory of Citizeness Soleil menacing an old woman merely for her dress, or Citizen Lapierre’s words about Lavoisier. “Even one such as Captain Grant.”

The Captain’s head whipped up and around at that, almost as if he had heard their discussion despite the distant between them. Sergeant Wilson shook his head before Anthony could respond, then gestured in the direction of the Left Bank, where the Rue de la Planche and a fine meal awaited. “I assure you, Major Stark, he will be fine. Our Captain has faced worse than the _sans-culottes_ and come through unscathed. Why, I would not be surprised should he beat us to the Legation!”

“Nor I,” said Private Monroe, flushing red as his sergeant fixed him with a steely gaze for speaking out of turn. “Forgive me, sir, but – “

The women of the street, still singing, had departed as the Americans spoke. It was only then that Anthony could hear, faint but true, a song of revolutionary fervor every bit as fierce as that which had sparked the current disturbances in France, only tempered with fellowship and not with blood:

Fath'r and I went down to camp,  
Along with Captain Gooding,  
And there we saw the men and boys  
As thick as hasty pudding. 

Yankee Doodle keep it up,  
Yankee Doodle dandy.  
Mind the music and the step,  
And with the girls be handy!

Anthony closed his eyes for a bare instant at how familiar the words, and the strong, deep voice that sang them, sounded in his ears. “Sergeant Wilson? May I ask – “

“Yes, Major Stark?”

It was madness, and it had to end. Anthony affected a merry smile that did not reflect his true feelings, and took his place beside the Creole. “What does Minister Morris plan to serve for our repast? If we’re to dine, I should know what dainties to anticipate.”

There was Captain Washington  
Upon a slapping stallion  
A-giving orders to his men  
I guess there was a million....

“I have not heard what is it to be served in specific, but believe me, none go hungry or unsatisfied from the Minister’s table,” replied the Sergeant. “Of that you can be sure.”

“I will take you at your word,” said Anthony, and if he hummed “Yankee Doodle” under his breath all the way back to the Left Bank, his companions never acknowledged the same.


	6. Interlude the Second:  Note placed in a box provided by the Committee of Public Safety.  The handwriting is strikingly similar to that of Committee agent Thibault Lapierre

_To the Committee of Public Safety, a warning! A traitor has come to our lands!_

_The son of the notorious whore Marie de Carbonel, daughter of the ci-devant Marquis whose cruel oppression of ‘his’ peasants has become a legend, has come to Paris from the United States. This woman, who was with child by the German lordling Stark, betrayed the Army to the British during the war of seven years, then fled with her lover to New York and safety. There they settled, and though she has passed to whatever judgment awaits those false to country and family, her son Anthony has come to France to claim his grandfather’s estate._

_He lodges on the Rue de la Planche, nigh unto the residence of the American Minister to France, and often is seen taking his exercise in and about the city. I urge you, beware! He is a danger! It is past time that he follows his accursed grandfather, who let his vassals starve to build his mansions and towers, to the embrace of Madame la Guillotine!_

_Vive la France! Vive le Revolution!_

_A Concerned Citizen_


	7. Minister Morris’s Grand Affair

The next few days passed far too quickly. In addition to his business interests and visits to what other natural philosophers had not quit Paris for the countryside, Anthony was occupied in analyzing Lavoisier’s papers. These were concerned with his work on a rare metal that he had acquired some years earlier from a merchant with connections to a secretive African tribe called the Ouqandians. He had spent much time examining and testing this substance, which he described as “stronger than the finest steel, yet weighing scarce as much as wood,” and speculating as to how it might be used should sufficient quantities become available to the great powers of Europe. He had already sent his own stock of the metal to the worthy Dr. MacLain of Pittsburgh who was to receive these notes, which were being sent under separate cover in case of complications in the shipment.

Anthony made a fair copy of Lavoisier’s original writings, then attached his own thoughts as to how Lavoisier’s experiments might assist Dr. MacLain in smelting and casting the new metal. He regretted that Lavoisier had not kept any for himself, as his tidy and practical mind longed to handle and test this precious substance for himself. At the same time, he knew well what might come to pass should the current government make an attempt to acquire more of this wonder of nature, as there were tumors that the armies of the Revolution hoped someday to export their peculiar ideas of “liberty, equality, and fraternity” to the shores of Africa. The Ouqandian metal would be safe in America, or as safe as anything could be in these parlous times. 

So would Lavoisier’s papers, if Anthony were able to remove them safely from France. To this end, he begged the indulgence of Minister Morris and requested that the fair copy with notes be sent safely homeward in the diplomatic pouch. The good Minister, who had no love of the blood-lust consuming what had been a fair and brilliant city, readily agreed, and it was decided that the papers would be committed to his care upon the night of the 21st of November, when Minister Morris would be hosting such as remained of the diplomatic and expatriate community to dancing and refreshments at the Legation.

“It will be the perfect opportunity to do so without exciting suspicion,” he told Anthony as they took their exercise a few days in advance of the affair, and Anthony agreed. He had resorted to secreting both the original papers and the copies in divers places upon his person and in his rooms, for both Citizen Lapierre and Citizeness Viellesse had been seen near the Legation and he had no assurance that his landlady would keep a stranger’s secrets, no matter how much good coin he set upon her table.

Thus it was that on the night of the 21st he took unusual care in his toilette, first bathing and shaving, then donning his finest suit, his cleanest linen, and the polished dress boots he had brought in his trunk from New York, before setting out for what promised to be a rare moment of joy and light in the current darkness. He hesitated as he left over which cloak to wear, for the night was cold and the wind sharp, but in the end he chose the one he had bought new in London upon the recommendation of his friend Lord Hastings and left his faithful old garment behind. It would not do to insult Minister Morris by wearing less than his best.

The Legation was brilliantly lit as he approached, with two of Captain Grant’s guard standing at rigid attention at the bottom of the stairs that led to the entrance. The stairs, in a departure from the usual architecture of the town, were flush against the exterior wall of the building and led to a rectangular landing and carved balustrade that allowed the residents of the building to observe passersby before descending themselves to the street. Two more soldiers were stationed at the corners of this unusual feature, both armed and ready to defend this little piece of America should the mob forget that aristocrats no longer dwelt within.

He nodded to Private Monroe as he passed, brushed the dirt of the street off his boots, then handed off his cloak to a footman dressed in sober hues. Yet another servant, this one darker than Sergeant Wilson, murmured a greeting in the lilting drawl of the South, then conducted Anthony to what had been a wealthy man’s ballroom before the Bastille had fallen and taken the _ancien regime_ and all its works with it.

Or _had_ the old ways been completely lost? For there was a small orchestra in the corner playing a merry tune, and dancers in silks and fine Mechlin lace tracing the intricate pattern of the minuet upon the gleaming marble floor. Priceless vases of Sevrés porcelain stood in each corner, great sprays of hothouse flowers in the national colors of red, white, and blue perfuming the heated air. A long table laden with a cold supper of dishes savory and sweet had been placed against one wall, two silver buckets of ice at either end to keep rare wines at the correct temperature. Minister Morris, in dark velvet of conservative cut, his cuffs and stock gleaming white, stood near the room’s entrance to greet his guests, though it was clear from the glances he kept darting toward the revelers that he longed to join them.

“Minister Morris, a good evening to you,” said Anthony, bowing in the approved fashion. “My thanks for your hospitality.”

“And mine to you, for agreeing to grace my party with the ‘keenest mind in America.’ As you can see, the dancing has already begun, with supper presently. ” the Minister responded. He smiled most warmly as a woman, graceful and elegant, glided up to join them. “Ah, there you are! My dear, this is Mr. Anthony Stark, who is visiting Paris from New York. Mr. Stark, it is my signal honor to introduce you Madame Adele de Flauhaut, one of my closest and most treasured friends in this land.”

“The honor is all mine,” said Anthony, bowing gallantly over her hand. She accepted the greeting with the dignity of an aristocrat born, for all that she wore the simple costume of the _Incroyables_ and not the powder and jewels of the _ancien regime_. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The Minister glanced at the lady, then at Anthony. “Perhaps you would consent to present Mr. Stark to the rest of the company? I would do so myself but duties call.”

“But of course,” said Madame Flauhaut, laying a slender gloved hand upon his good arm just long enough for Anthony to recognize the clear affection between them. Her English was fluent, with enough of her native accent to give it a charming and musical effect. “It would be my pleasure to assist one of your countrymen, Your Excellency.” 

So saying, she shifted her hand from the Minister’s arm to Anthony’s and led him about the room, pointing out the most prominent guests, the delicacies laid out on the sideboard, and the meaning of the mythological scenes painted upon the walls and ceiling. The house had lately belonged to a cadet branch of the du Chatelet family which had joined General Lafayette in exile to the Netherlands, and the richness of the ornamentation and the furnishings remained despite the building’s current use by an American diplomat. 

Anthony allowed himself to be presented to the ladies and introduced to the men, accepted a cup of chilled wine, and mingled with guests and Legation staff alike. Many of those present were men and women of good birth and influence before the war, and some remained so, despite the tiny flowers of red silk, cunningly made, that adorned more than one dainty head. “Le Mouron Rouge,” the mysterious rescuer of the condemned, was the talk of Paris, at least _sub rosa_ , and Anthony could not help but wonder how many of the guests were related to those who had been whisked over the Channel by this unknown man. 

More common were adornments worked with America’s stars and stripes. Most were little more than a courtesy to Minister Morris – a starry cockade here, a striped sash there – but Anthony espied a sprinkling of white stars, some set against blue, others not. He had heard rumors of _L'Estoile Blanche_ , an American who functioned much as did the Scarlet Pimpernel, yet it seemed that this man was even more a mystery than his English counterpart.

“Oh, he is real, do not doubt that,” murmured Madame Flauhaut, swirling past Anthony during a dance. “As to what he looks like – he could be fair or dark, tall or short, thin or fat. None have seen his face, or so I have heard.”

“And the Minister?”

“You would have to ask him yourself,” she said, and shifted her attention to her next partner as the steps of the dance required.

Madame Flauhaut was an intelligent and well read companion, but she was far from the only beauty who graced the event, and had he been so inclined Anthony would have had his pick of companions to lighten his heart and pass the time. Fortunately for his heart and his purpose, the clock chimed the hour for the dancing to end and the meal to begin before he was forced to make such a choice, for it was also the hour marked for Anthony to pass the fair copy of Lavoisier’s notes to a member of the Legation staff. 

He accordingly slipped away from the ballroom in search of the Minister’s study, where the deed could be accomplished without attracting notice from the revelers in the public areas of the mansion. “A member of my staff will accept the papers on my behalf,” the Minister had assured him, but he had declined to identify the individual during their discussion. “There is no need for names,” he had said, stumping along at a surprising clip on his wooden leg. “You will know him when you see him.”

The study was down a hallway off the main entrance, and it was but the work of a moment for Anthony to slip away from the revelers and past the servants at the door. Aside from the windows facing onto a side street, the corridor was lit by but a single candle at either end, so it was easy for him to keep to the shadows. He did not know if the Minister had informed the guards of tonight’s meeting, but it was best to take no chances. 

He was almost at his destination when a single erect figure emerged from the room and stood quietly in the hall. “Mr. Stark?” came a soft whisper, and Anthony froze in place as he recognized the voice.

“Captain Grant?”

The tall American stepped forward. He wore his dress uniform tonight, the dark wool brushed clean of all trace of lint, the linen immaculate. His hair was pulled back in the military fashion, and bore no trace of powder or wig. There was a faint flash from the silver gorget at his throat, almost like a shooting star racing across the night sky before it plummets to the ground.

“The very same.”

Anthony stood rooted in place. Here, in the shadows, the resemblance he had told himself was mere coincidence was stronger than ever. “What are you doing here? Should you not be in the ballroom?”

“I am where I am supposed to be,” came the quiet reply. Another flash, this one a smile that was equally self-abasing and self-mocking. “Besides, I am not one for the ballroom nor the salon. Minister Morris would be the first to tell you that I am no dancer.”

“I can scarce credit that,” said Anthony. He had seen the man move about the streets with the easy grace of a true athlete and the silence of a cat on the prowl. “Surely one of your – physical gifts – would take to the dance floor like a bird to the sky.”

“I’ve never had the chance to learn, Mr. Stark.” Captain Grant stood unmoving for a moment as if listening to something only he could hear, then ducked his head in a motion that was almost shy. “Besides, that is not my purpose here in France. I am a soldier, not a creature of the salons.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” murmured Anthony. He glanced over his shoulder to be certain they were not observed, then removed the fair copy of Lavoisier’s notes from the breast of his coat. “Is this part of your duties? Supervising the diplomatic pouch?”

Captain hesitated, then took the packet and tucked it into his own waistcoat. “Normally that is the responsibility of the Legation’s secretary. Special items, those of particular import – they are another matter. Minister Morris relies upon me and my men to ensure their safe transit to our leaders across the sea, no matter what.”

Anthony’s fingers tingled at the brief brush of of the Captain's hand against his own. A burst of noise from the ballroom resolved itself into a lively dance tune, this one a sprightly measure that had ever been a favorite of President Washington’s. “I have no doubt that his trust is well placed.”

“I do my best,” said Captain Grant. “I pray it is enough.”

More music floated down the hall, this melody stately and slow enough that Minister Morris might participate despite his missing limb. Anthony lightly rubbed his fingertips in an attempt to dispel the last memories of a strong, callused touch against his skin. 

“The hour grows late,” he said at last. “I beg your indulgence, Captain, but as my errand is accomplished, I should be on my way.”

Captain Grant frowned. “Surely you would stay longer? You have but lately arrived, sir, and – “

“No, no.” Anthony started for the door, brushing past the footman so quickly he scarce had time to accept the new cloak the man draped over his arm. The Legation was unbearably hot of a sudden, and he gasped in relief at the cold night air as he stepped outside onto the balustrade. His heart sped up, painfully fast. “I should not – I cannot - ”

He winced at the trip hammer beat against his ribs and braced himself against the stone railing, dark head bowed as he struggled for control. “Forgive me, Captain. It is an old wound, one I received in the Revolution. I need but a moment to recover, and then I shall be on my way.”

There was a faint rustle to his right, and the slight warmth of a large, strong body settling in beside him. “You need not go,” said Captain Grant at last, and how many times had Anthony heard exactly those words, delivered in exactly that low, soothing tone? “The streets are not safe at this hour. We can prepare a room for you if you are not well.”

Anthony closed his eyes, unable to face the man next to him. “That – that would not be wise. Not wise at all – “

“Mr. Stark, your health and safety trump all. You should rest – “

“You used to call me by my name,” Anthony burst out, unable to keep up what he was now certain was but a charade one moment longer. He threw his head back, staring up into the autumn sky. There were few stars visible in the city, but he could discern the faint outlines of Orion, the Great Hunter, and the brilliant blue-white gleam of Sirius, the Hunter’s Dog, through the smoke of the Paris chimney pots. “When we were friends, and more than friends. Why the pretense now? What is going on?”

“Going on? I am merely thinking of your – your comfort.” The Captain’s breathing had sped up despite himself. “ I do not know why you insist that you know me when - ”

“Because I _do_ know you,” said Anthony, turning at last to look the man calling himself Roger Grant in the eye. “Your voice, your face, your touch – everything about you – I know who you are. I know _you_. Why will you not admit it, or tell me where you have been for the last ten years or more?”

The clear blue eyes were wide with shock, the firm lips parted and trembling slightly. A faint, almost heated flush had bloomed across the high cheekbones. “I assure you, Mr. Stark – “

“Is that all I am? ‘Mr. Stark’? The man I knew – “ Anthony’s voice shook with the effort to keep himself from shouting. Paris was not safe, not even for Americans, and who knew what spies lurked at the bottom of the stairs? “This man would not have dissembled about his name, nor hidden from me and all those who loved him for so long. The war is over. Why will you not speak the truth?”

“This man,” said the Captain, gripping the balustrade hard enough that his knuckles showed white through the skin. “He was dear to you? Truly?”

“Dearer than a brother could ever be.” Anthony met the other’s gaze full on, and oh! how well he knew those eyes, those lips, those strong but elegant features. “My other friends, my own kin – they were but acquaintances compared to the bond I shared with him. From the moment we met on the banks of the Schuykill to the day General Washington summoned me to his tent, he was all that I could I have wished for in a companion, heart and soul, and his loss was a wound deeper than the one I sustained at Monmouth.”

His right hand went to his heart, covering the scar from a British bayonet that had nearly killed him on that blazing summer day. “No wife could ease the pain I have carried since General Washington informed me that Stephen Rogers had fallen. Only the weakness of my flesh prevented me from following his trail and bringing him home to receive the honors due the greatest patriot and hero of our war, and many is the night I have tormented myself with the thought that had I been well and strong, I might yet have found him before he was lost forever.”

There was no sound but his own harsh breathing. “I have made my way in the world alone ever since, Patroclus without his Achilles, and the mere thought that he – that _you_ \- could return from wherever you have dwelt these lonely years, could see me again and say nothing - “

Tears burned at his lashes, and he blinked until they were gone. He was a Stark, and he had his pride. “It is like a second dagger to my heart, sir. Think me of what you will, but it is nothing but the truth.”

Sergeant Wilson and Private Monroe, standing proudly at their stations, could have been carved of the same stone as the balustrade for all that they acknowledged the heated conversation taking place. A carriage bearing someone rich enough and confident enough to fear not the envy of the _sans-culottes_ clopped up, a faint whinny from one of its horses echoing off the buildings across the street.

“Would that I could satisfy you,” whispered the other man at last. He took a single step forward, one hand reaching up to smooth his already perfect golden hair into place. “Mr. – Anthony – I – “

“You trusted me once with your deepest confidences, as did I you. What has happened will not be shared with another.” Anthony held out an ungloved hand. “Surely you can trust me again? ”

“If only I could.” The Captain drew a shuddering breath. “Even if I were – if I _am_ \- what you believe me to be, I could not admit it here and now. My duties preclude any tender feelings, fraternal or otherwise, at least until I have accomplished the task set to me by the President.”

”His Excellency has sent you here? Why?” exclaimed Anthony. “I do not understand.”

“Nor should you. It is dangerous even for me, and I am far better able to handle myself in these evil times than most,” said the Captain. His tone softened, and he took Anthony’s hand in both of his long enough to ease the chill of the bitter autumn wind. “You said you trusted your friend with your greatest secrets. In his memory, will you trust me now? If I can - _when_ I can – we will speak of this, and more, and I shall hold nothing back. You have my word of honor on this, Mr. Stark - Anthony.”

What answer could a man give to so earnest a plea? Anthony swallowed yet another question and lifted his chin a fraction so to better gaze into those azure eyes. “Have I a choice? Your word was ever your bond.”

The other man bowed his head, and for one brief instant the ghost of a smile played about his lips. “As it should be for us all.”

Neither spoke for a long moment. A discreet cough from Sergeant Wilson gave them warning enough to put a respectable distance between them before the door opened and another guest, this one swaying slightly from too much wine, emerged from the Legation. The Captain sighed and shook his head as the reveler staggered down the steps and into the waiting carriage. “I must speak to the Minister, or I would escort you to your lodgings myself. The streets – “

“Are not safe, yes, I know.” Anthony waited until the carriage had pulled away down the street to reply. “Need I remind you that my rooms are scarce a stone’s throw away? I will be fine.”

“Are you certain?” said the Captain, frowning slightly. “I could send Private Monroe or Private Jones to see you to your door.”

Anthony affected a nonchalance he did not quite feel. “I will be fine, Captain. Good night.”

“If you are certain, then I will bid you a good night, Mr. – Anthony,” said the Captain, so softly that Anthony might have imagined the last word. “Until we meet again.”

“Indeed.” Anthony jerked his head up and down in acknowledgment, then walked briskly down the steps to the rough cobbles and headed toward the rented rooms that had been his home since he arrived in Paris. His head ached and his eyes were sore, and he wanted nothing more than to surrender himself to the arms of Morpheus, god of sleep. The strain of the last few days was starting to tell upon him, and he resolved to call upon Lavoisier the next day to inform him that his work was safe, and to offer again his assistance.

A hired taxi clattered past, followed by a single lean figure striding swiftly against the wind. A few windows still shone with light, the occasional shadow of an occupant visible for an instant or two. Anthony shuddered and swung his new cloak over his shoulders. The sooner he was inside, the happier he would be, for the night and the cold did his heart no good.

“Citizen Stark?” The calm, precise voice of Thibault Lapierre, agent of the Committee of Public Safety, pierced his reverie as he was within steps of his door. “I was not expecting to see you out so late at night.”

“Citizen Lapierre?” Anthony turned to face the other man, who had emerged from an alley without a sound, two roughly dressed men flanking him.. Citizeness Viellesse, smiling in a way that boded no one any good, lounged easily against the wall behind them, her slender blonde companion keeping a watchful eye on the American Legation in case someone emerge. “This is a surprise. What brings you to this part of Paris so late at night?”

There was a shrill, ugly laugh from the girl. She stabbed a finger in Anthony’s direction, lips drawn back from teeth that might have been called lovely had she bothered to clean them. “A surprise, he says! Ha!”

“What do you – “

“What brings me to this part of Paris, Citizen Stark?” asked Lapierre. He drew a folded parchment from under his cloak. “Or should I use your true name, _Citizen Carbonel?_ ”

“Citizen - “ Anthony stepped backwards, almost into the arms of a third ruffian, and oh, how he wished he had an American soldier by his side. “Carbonel was my mother’s name, not mine.”

“How fascinating, particularly since there is no record of a legal marriage between Marie de Carbonel and any man, let alone the German adventurer named 'Stark,' who spirited her away from hearth and home,” drawled Lapierre. “The fruit of such an – unconventional union would of course bear his mother's - 

“My parents married in America, not France!” Anthony's fists clenched, and he moved to spring toward the blackguard who so impugned his mother's reputation. “My name - “

“ - is ultimately of less concern to me than your crimes, and those of the ----- that brought you into the world and the family that produced her.” Lapierre opened the parchment, and Anthony scarcely had time to read the fatal words of an arrest warrant before one of the Republican's bully boys had seized his hands and yanked them behind his back. “For it is Anthony Carbonel, also known as Anthony Stark, son of Marie de Carbonel and grandson of the ci-devant Marquis, who stands accused of espionage by the people of France.”


	8. Illustration for "Minister Morris's Grand Affair"




	9. Interlude the Third:  The Battle of the Kegs

__

THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS; OR, CAPTAIN AMERICA; a new Ballad of the Revolution. Being the story of one Captain Steven ROGERS, late of Brooklyn, and his Great Triumph with the engineer STARK at Philadelphia in the winter of 1778.

Arise ye Sons of Liberty  
And listen to my story  
I'll sing of Captain America  
Our nation's man of glory.

Chorus:

Yankee Doodle, etc.

Our army was in winter quarters  
Right by Philadelphee  
Suffering for our nation's need  
While Britons lived right smartly.

Chorus

Washington was in despair  
His situation frightful  
'O who can learn what they have planned  
Our freedom for to stifle?

Chorus

'For their ships keep out the French  
Our allies true and mighty  
Who would provide us corn and wood  
T'sustain us in the fighting.'

Chorus

Then up spoke Captain Rogers bold  
A man both brave and hearty  
'I've no fear of British steel  
No man of theirs can best me!

Chorus

'I'll ride alone all into town  
Their sailing ships to fire  
When I am done King George's men  
Will swift for home retire.'

Chorus

Our General then stood amazed  
At this bold man's great courage  
'Take my horse, sir,' he did cry  
'Ride forth to win the victory!'

Chorus

And so the Captain left the camp  
Armed with sword and rifle  
He rode all night, till morning light,  
And in no mood to trifle.

Chorus  
'Twas early day, as poets say,  
Just when the sun was rising,  
When Rogers stood, on log of wood,  
And saw a thing surprising.

Chorus

As in amaze he stood to gaze,  
The truth can't be denied, sir,  
He spied a score of kegs or more,  
Come floating down the tide sir.

Chorus

Another man, in patri't blue,  
Stood by the river's shoreline  
A score of kegs, lashed tight like pegs  
Stretched floating out like wood mines.

Chorus

'What's this!' cried Rogers, pulling rein  
'What mischief here is brewing?  
Mean you harm to our dear land  
Or to the British crewmen?'

Chorus

'Fear not,' said he, his eyes aflash  
'My heart is with our country.  
Stark's my name, and here's my game,  
To slip past British sentries.

Chorus

"These kegs are full of finest powder,  
Packed up like pickled herring.  
I'll send them down, to attack the town,  
In this new way of ferrying."

Chorus

"They'll need a guide," said Rogers bold,  
"To steer them to their target.  
I'll ride them down, straight into town,  
Ensure they'll strike where you've set.'

Chorus

'We are agreed!' the new man cried,  
''Twill be a glorious victory!"  
And so they rode the kegs all bold  
Straight to the British navy.

Chorus

Now up and down, throughout the town,  
Most frantic scenes were acted;  
And some ran here, and others there,  
Like men almost distracted.

Chorus

Some fire cried, which some denied,  
But said the earth had quakèd;  
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,  
Ran through the streets half naked.

Chorus

Their general, he, snug as a flea,  
Lay all this time a snoring;  
Nor dreamed of harm, as he lay warm,  
In bed with lady charming.

Chorus

Now in a fright, he starts upright,  
Awak'd by such a clatter;  
He rubs his eyes, and boldly cries,  
"For God's sake, what's the matter?"

Chorus

At his bedside, he then espied,  
His aide all pale and quaking  
'The rebels come, we are undone!  
The whole town it is shaking!

Chorus

"Arise! arise,' the poor wight cries,  
As ships and men are riven  
By Stark and Rogers, brave and true,  
By keg the vict'ry given.

Chorus

The fleet was gone by morning sun,  
Their sailors dead or missing  
The British soldiers broke and ran  
And Rogers took their cannon.

Chorus

'Who are you men?' the general cried.  
"What men would dare to strike us?  
O woe is me, that victory  
O'er rebels is denied us!'

Chorus

'We are Sons of Liberty,  
Our country out defending.  
America's our dearest home,  
You British must surrender!'

Chorus

So said Rogers, so said Stark  
In one voice strong and mighty  
The general did yield his sword  
And then our men made merry.

Chorus

'America, she will be free,'  
The Briton he lamented,  
'Captain America you must be,  
To beat the ships King George sent.'

Chorus

'I'm but a simple soldier, sir,'  
The Captain did declare then.  
'I'm not alone, while free men stand  
To fight for our new Nation!

Chorus

'Go back to England, tell your king  
The knee we never shall bend.  
Our struggle it shall never cease  
Till America has her freedom!"

Chorus

Thus ends the Battle of the Kegs,  
The triumph of the winter,  
When Stark and Rogers, strong and bold,  
The British fleet did splinter!

Chorus


	10. Citoyen Carbonel

As Anthony had feared, his landlady had betrayed him.

“Patriotism trumps even the finest gold,” Citizen Lapierre had told him, with a serene little sneer after they had searched his person, then thrown him into a dank cell that was, by some miracle, not in the Conciergerie or another of the truly impregnable fortresses that housed enemies of the Republic. “Your grandfather was a legend for his treatment of his peasants, Citoyen. Citizeness Bergevin's sister was one of his victims. Did you truly think she would not disclose your true identity to the Committee of Public Safety?”

“My name is Stark, not Carbonel,” Anthony had ground out, every muscle aching from the methods of 'interrogation' Lapierre's thugs had used. “My mother was as much a victim of her sire's depravity as any poor wretch lost to his barbarity!”

“Which is why she betrayed her country during time of war, then fled before her personal shame was visible to all, I presume?” Lapierre had raised the originals of Lavoisier's papers, which the clever Citizeness Soleil had found concealed beneath the floorboards in Anthony's room. “Do not protest, Citoyen! I know the story of your mother, her lover, and her traitorous actions toward France – did you think her deeds were forgotten?”

Anthony had swallowed, throat dry. His parents had rarely spoken of their departure from France, save only to denounce his grandfather for his ill treatment of his child. “How would I know of these things? I was not yet born. Am I to suffer for what another did?”

Lapierre had shaken his head, a thin and unmirthful smile curving his lips. “Had you not returned to France and treat with the traitor Lavoisier, whose work as a _fermiere_ did so much damage to the people, I might be inclined to believe you. But as it is? No.

“Moreover, were you innocent you would not have denied your heritage when you returned to the land of your ancestors. Why hide behind your father's name?”

“It is my name,” Anthony had insisted, but without his mother's marriage lines, safe in a church in New York, what could he do? “I am a Stark, not a Carbonel, and you - “

“I am a loyal son of France.” Lapierre had stood by the door of the cell, a mocking smile playing about his lips. “You are not. Keep that in mind, _Citoyen Carbonel_.”

In vain had he protested that he had come to France solely to visit Lavoisier, not spy on the Republic nor reclaim his family wealth; the carefully written analysis of the Ouqandian metal and its potential value to lands other than France spoke against him on the former point at least, and what man would trust the grandson of an aristo in these days? Lavoisier himself now languished in jail, awaiting what passed for justice in this autumn of discontent, and the knowledge that his father-in-law had also been seized, and that both men stood accused of crimes against the people for their work in taxation and not for his scientific work, did little to assuage the guilt as Anthony lay upon his narrow cot and stared at the cracked ceiling. He had gambled with another man's life, and now it seemed both would pay the price.

This was in spite of Minister Morris straining every nerve and calling upon every friend he had in the government to obtain Anthony's freedom. “He is a hero of our war, the great engineer who brought us victory in Philadelphia in the dark winter of 1778. It would be a crime against Liberty herself to punish him merely for corresponding with a fellow man of science!” American's representative had cried, but Citizen Lapierre would not be moved.

“His grandfather was a monster, his mother a traitor who was no better than she should be,” the cold champion of the Republic had said. “The people have waited years for justice against this family, and justice they shall have.”

There was no more to be said. Short of Citizen Robespierre himself deciding that releasing the last member of a family renowned for excess, luxury, and ill treatment of its vassals would serve the interests of the Revolution, Anthony would remain imprisoned until it was time for him to face the tribunal to plead his case. That the Incorruptible might soften, might show some hint of human feeling toward a man who had never so much as set foot in France before 1793, whose mother had fled in terror to another continent to escape the debauchery and wrath of her sire – perhaps in a different world, with a Robespierre less certain of righteousness and a Revolution less thirsty for revenge, this might have come to pass. But in this world, it was not to be.

And so Anthony sat in his cell, alone except for the occasional hungry vermin seeking what crumbs were left of his meager rations. He had no book to help him pass the time, not even Holy Writ, nor would his captors allow him paper and pen. Minister Morris sent his secretary with fresh clothing and a sliver of soap, but wholesome food or any means of entertainment was not allowed. “He is not here to rest and study, but to prepare for his fate,” Citizen Lapierre had informed the Minister’s secretary, and that was that.

Escape was not an option; his cell was on an upper floor, and well guarded, so unless one could emulate Daedalus and manufacture wings, there was no egress to be had. Overpowering a guard and taking his clothing might have worked had it not been for the damnable wound that all too often prevented him from great exertion except under extraordinary circumstances. Neither was bribery an option, even if Anthony had had access to hard coin, for the money he had brought from London had been confiscated “for the good of the people.” That this had oddly taken the form of a brilliant scarlet dress and a curious tricolo fichu for Citizeness Soleil to wear in her daily vigil by the guillotine was not to be mentioned.

Had he been a man of prayer, Anthony would have implored his Maker for succor. As a man of Reason, all he could do was hope that somehow, some way, he would find vindication through the law, and not an end that partook more of entertainment for the blood-crazed than the application of justice.

With nothing to do save wait, he found himself resting far more than had been his wont. Sometimes it was merely an uneasy doze, as true rest was difficult during the day thanks to the creak of the tumbrils heading toward their appointment with Citizen Sanson, and the cries and wails of the condemned. Other times, after the sun had set and the prison grown dark, it was true sleep, dreamless and long, and had he not been confined to a rude cell with but a straw mattress, he would have found himself refreshed when he woke.

Other times he dreamed. Many of these were random, as dreams so often are. He would see those he knew and counted as friends, from his cousin Virginia to Benjamin Banneker's assistant Rhodes, and he would smile at the thought of them safe and well in American. Others were images of horror: the British bayonet that had injured him actually reaching his heart, the Place de la Revolution, the deaths of those he had known and fought beside.

Still others were of Stephen Rogers.

Why he was so drawn to the young officer he could not say, any more than a boy gone a-wooing can tell the onlooker why _this_ girl is the idol of his heart and not _that_ ; for all of Captain Rogers' manifest virtues, it cannot be denied that there were others in the Continental Army as noble in spirit and fair of face. The physical prowess that made him a legend could not be matched, it is true, but strength of body is little guide to character or intelligence. 

Nor could any see why a man of such excellent qualities might ally himself with a brilliant yet somewhat erratic man such as Anthony Stark, who had cut a swath through the youth of his home city when his parents' early death had left him with a fortune larger than that of Mr. Solomon, the great financier of the Revolution. Little suited did they seem for each other merely as friends, let alone companions of the heart and soul, who fought side by side as if they had been raised from birth to work as one.

Yet it cannot be denied that Captain Rogers never spoke of Major Stark except in the most glowing terms, nor that Major Stark averred that he had never met a finer man than Liberty's truest sentinel. The loss of Captain Rogers had nearly killed him thanks to excessive drink and reckless disregard for his own safety in battle, and had not General Washington himself intervened, it is not at all clear if he would have had the will to continue until the surrender at Yorktown brought America her freedom at last. 

Anthony had made a life for himself after the war, and a fortune twice as great as that he had inherited. Yet always he had walked alone, though many ladies young and fair had hoped for his attention. “It would not be right,” he had told his friend Hamilton one night after the latter's family had retired for the evening, and Hamilton, who had suffered his own losses during the war, had only nodded in sympathy and passed him another glass of wine.

To see what he knew in his heart was his old companion alive and well...to receive a promise in all but name that the truth would be revealed and their relationship resumed in due time...to know that miracles might befall even a man of science...it had been more than he could have hoped for. And now, after all he had suffered, after a decade spent alone, to have the cup dashed from his lips by the sins of his grandfather - 

_“ – and this is true? Washington wishes you to be known as ‘Captain America’?” Anthony could not restrain an affectionate chuckle at the news. “What a strange sobriquet!”_

_“’Tis only because I was born on the date of our Declaration of Independence,” Stephen said, scowling at the wall of their hutment. Spring was nearnig, and the bitter cold that had brought such misery to Valley Forge had abated enough to make the little shelters tolerable. “I am but a soldier like any other, not a national symbol!”_

_“On that we must agree to disagree,” Anthony replied. He leaned forward in his chair, fascinated by how the light of the hearth played across his friend’s strong jaw and golden hair. “The ballad of our adventure on the river is sung across the land, and that does not count word of the rest of your exploits. Without your work who knows what the Congress might think, or our French allies?”_

_The other man shook his locks free of their queue and stared at his hands. “Without your work with the kegs, I would have been one man against an army. People should know of you as well.”_

_“Pshaw. I am but an engineer, not a warrior. You are – “ How could mere words describe the inhuman speed with which Stephen rushed the British lines to carve a path for the Continental Army? The agility and grace that allowed him to dodge a musket ball or a bayonet? The sheer beauty of his smallest motion, whether lifting a tankard to his lips or sketching out a battle plan? “You are - extraordinary. Surely you know this?”_

_Stephen did not reply for long moments, and as the fire crackled and the candles burned low, Anthony feared he had given offense. “What you call extraordinary I call a gift, whether from the Lord or from the Indians’ Great Spirit,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “Were I still as I was before I met the Oneida, you would not speak so.”_

_“Would I not?” Anthony leaned forward and seized the other man’s hands in his own. They were long, and surprisingly fine for all their strength and skill. “I confess that I never saw you before your transformation, but your mind, your spirit, your courage – surely these were always there? The powwow man must have chosen you for a reason, my friend.”_

_“So the General says,” murmured Stephen, and was that guilt shadowing those brilliant eyes? “The British attempted to assassinate His Excellency after they heard of me, you know. Had not Abraham sacrificed himself, we would have no leader and possibly no army. I will always wonder if I was worth this, for Abraham was a man of rare qualities that we could sorely use.”_

_“Worth it?” Anthony cried. “You are an example to us all! Would that I had a tenth of your loyalty, your ability to inspire and lead! Compared to you, I am but a trifler, a tinkerer with weapons and - ”_

_“Anthony, what? Your inventions, your skills – they have already done great good, and will do more.” Stephen’s hands tightened on Anthony’s, and he fixed Anthony with a look that pierced him to his very soul. “Your intelligence, your kindness, your willingness to spend all you have for our cause – you will do more for independence that I could ever hope to accomplish. Never, never say otherwise, for it is not so.“_

_“But it is.” Moved by an impulse that he would have suppressed in the cold light of day, Anthony laid a hand on Stephen’s cheek, fingertips trembling as they traced the lines of bone and flesh. “Even as Patroclus was but a shadow of his dear companion Achilles, whatever I do – whatever I am \- is as nothing without you at my side, whether as friend or – “_

_“Or?” Stephen brought up a hand to cover Anthony’s, lips half-parted in what could only be wonder. “Anthony? What are you saying?”_

_Anthony drew a deep breath to steel himself for the disgust and revulsion that might well follow what he said next. His parents had raised him to believe in science, not superstition, but Stephen was a regular attendee of Divine Services. “That though Patroclus was a great man who accomplished great things, he was as nothing compared to Achilles, and gladly laid down his life in his beloved friend’s stead - ”_

_“Anthony?”_

_“ – as I would do for you, ten thousand times over.” Anthony’s voice fell to a whisper as he gazed into those burning eyes. He shivered in the silence. “If this displeases or offends you, you have but to say the word and it will never – “_

_“It does neither,” said Stephen, and before Anthony could say another word Stephen had risen to his feet and drawn Anthony with him. “You speak of the Myrmidons before the walls of Troy, but recall that David had Jonathan as his friend, and more than friend.”_

_“Stephen?”_

_“Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women,’” quoted Stephen, voice low and rough and so very good to hear, and before Anthony could utter a word, he brought his lips to Anthony’s as the fire leapt in the hearth -_

A sound at the window roused Anthony, and he came upright with a gasp as the dream that was as much memory as vision ended without warning. His skin was ice cold and slick with sweat as he threw back the meager blanket and levered himself onto the barren floor of his cell. The moon had risen, and the room was light enough that even the shadows were faintly silver and not the usual inky black.

“Hist!” came a voice, low and rough and somehow familiar. “Anthony?”

Anthony stared at the silhouette of a man’s head and upper body against the bars, unable to comprehend how anyone could have climbed the sheer walls of his prison. “What – how - ?”

“Be ready, my friend,” came the whispered words, and a small object sailed through the air to land on the rude cot that had been Anthony’s bed since his arrest. “You are not alone.”

Anthony rushed to the bars as recognition set in. Could it be? “Stephen? Stephen – “

He arrived just as the silhouette vanished, and had the bars not been still warm from the grasp of two strong yet delicate hands, he might have thought himself still dreaming. But the bars were warm despite the frosty night, and the dark shadow that raced across the prison courtyard and vaulted the gate with scarcely a sound was no phantom. No man save one had ever moved with such grace and speed, nor said Anthony’s name with such tenderness.

He clutched at the bars, sucking in great gulps of air as hope stirred in his breast for the first time since the night of Minister Morris’s grand affair. “Stephen,” he whispered, and if he shed a tear in sheer relief at the mere thought of freedom, surely he can be forgiven a moment of weakness.

Eventually the cold drove him back to the comparative comfort of his bed. His hand brushed against a tiny soft object, and he recalled that the silhouette - _Stephen, who else could it possibly be?_ \- had cast something thereon from the window. He carefully picked it up and moved to the area where the moonlight was strongest, the better to examine whatever gift he had been given.

It was a tiny bouquet of silk flowers, cunningly made, and so vivid a red that he could almost discern their crimson hue in the brilliant silver light from the sky. A strip of parchment had been wrapped about the stems, and it was but the work of a moment for Anthony to unwap it and read the following words in ink that glowed a faint, luminous white in the darkness of his cell:

  
_Tomorrow at dawn. Be ready - SGR _


	11. Interlude the Fourth:  From the Diary of George Washington

_From the diary of General George Washington, written sometime during the winter of 1777-1778. The dates are obscured by a large water stain._

_____ Weather cold and snowy. Dr. Cochran reports much sickness and hunger among the men._

_____ A clear and cold day. A delegation arrived at midday from John Skenandoa, Chief of the Oneida Indians who provided such aid at Oriskany. Their leader, a baptized Christian known as Abraham, conveyed the greetings of the Chief to the Congress and said that Skenandoa wishes our Army nothing but success. He then revealed that a shipment of fine white corn would arrive within the week for the relief of our men. I thanked Abraham and invited him to dine with me this night._

______ A somewhat warmer day. Divine services held. Abraham the Indian attended, along with Captain Thomas of Pennsylvania, his company clerk Corporal Evans, and several men of his command. One of the men, Private Rogers, cough’d most mightily but insisted he was quite well despite an obvious fever. I asked him why he is not abed, as he is low in flesh and alarming pale. He replied that he had recently returned from scouting the British lines near Philadelphia and had not had time to rest, then showed me most excellent drawings of their positions and spoke much of ways to harass their patrols with what men we have. I instructed him to see Dr. Cochran for a physick as we can ill afford to lose one of such spirit and perception._

______ The weather continues warm. The corn arrived today, along with the woman Polly Cooper to shew the company cooks how to prepare it in ways that will be savory and wholesome for the men._

______ Much rain. The woman Polly is a most excellent cook, of fine character. Mrs. Washington speaks highly of her skill and urg’d me to employ her. I have agreed, as I learn’d long since that Mrs. Washington’s judgment on this matter is not to be gainsaid._

______ The rain has lessened, but there is much fog. I toured the camp accompanied by Colonel Hamilton and General Steuben. The latter has plans to train the men in proper military techniques when their health allows, which I pray will be soon._

______ Rain again, followed by snow toward evening. Dr. Cochran reported that sickness continues, altho’ the Indian corn as prepared by Polly Cooper does much to ease the hunger of the men. I inquired as to Corporal Rogers, fearing that he had succumbed to his cough. Dr. Cochran informed me that the Corporal had taken a turn for the worse, yet was determined to serve as long as his strength allowed. I ordered blankets, firewood, and brandy sent to him._

_Later this day - the Indian Abraham begged a private audience with me after I had dined, as he had overheard my discussion with Dr. Cochran and gone to see Corporal Rogers himself. The Corporal was standing watch outside his barracks despite chills and fever that Abraham said it would have moved the Lord Jesus and his angels to weep with pity. He doubts the Corporal will survive once he takes to his bed, and asked my permission to see if Indian medicine could do what Dr. Cochran’s skill cannot._

_I gave my assent and he left. It is my earnest hope that he succeeds, as Corporal Rogers shows talent that would serve us in good stead if were his body not so frail._

______ Snow continues. Attended divine services, then dined with General Lafayette and General Steuben. Mrs. Washington supervised the meal, as the woman Polly Cooper was summoned to assist Abraham in his ministrations to Corporal Rogers._

______ Snow continued most of the day. Polly has not returned._

______ The day dawned clear and cold. I rode about the camp to see for myself the condition of the men. Polly has not returned, although she sent word that she will return tomorrow._

______ A cold and sunny day. Polly appeared just after I had broken my fast with news that Abraham most earnestly desir’d my presence in Captain Thomas’s camp. I summoned Colonel Hamilton and we did follow._

_There I saw a wonder that I shall not forget to my dying day. Corporal Rogers was not only fully recover’d from his fever, but strong and well and all but glowing with vital force. I was greatly surpriz’d by this astonishing transformation, for had I not known better I would have thought it a new man entirely. Abraham explained that he and Polly, moved to pity by Corporal Rogers’ plight, had performed an Indian medicine ritual reserved only for the their finest and bravest men, that they might serve their tribe as perfect warriors and living symbols of hope._

_I asked Corporal Rogers if he had agreed do this, and he said he would have done this and more to serve his country. Abraham nodded, saying that never in all his days had he seen one more worthy of the blessings of the Lord Jesus and the Great Spirit of his people. I profess’d myself satisfied, thanked Abraham for his work, and took my leave._

_[several days’ worth of entries are lost or illegible. The only intact words are “spy” and “Abraham” and “death”]_

______ Windy day, much rain. I have taken the advice of Colonel Hamilton and promoted Corporal Rogers to Captain for his great deeds of the week past. Hamilton avers that never has he seen a man of such talents, and Lafayette and Steuben agree that he cannot be wasted in the ranks. His first mission for our cause will take place in a fortnight’s time…._


	12. The Secret is Revealed

Anthony did not sleep the rest of the night. The tiny note with its message to be ready at dawn, the sight of what had to be Stephen at the window, the fluid grace of the man fleeing the premises – no, sleep was impossible, and so Anthony remained awake, counting the hours by quarters as the nearest clock tolled the time. At last the sky changed from the deep black of night to the pale leaden hue of dawn. Anthony lay very still, committing every moment of that brief encounter to memory, and waited for what was to come.

Booted footsteps rang down the corridor, and scarce had Anthony had time to sit up and brush his hair into some semblance of order when the door opened and Citizen Lapierre entered.

“Citoyen Carbonel, good morning!” he proclaimed with a genial smile. “You slept well, I trust? No? What a pity.”

“On the contrary,” Anthony responded, making a show of stretching as if he had spent several hours in blissful repose. “I find myself refreshed and ready for whatever the day brings.”

Lapierre blinked, then recovered as the slim, fair-haired _tricoteuse_ who had served as Citizeness Viellesse’s lookout cautiously appeared beside him, a worried frown upon her face. “Normally I would find myself pleased to see you in such excellent spirits, but as you will quickly learn, the people’s justice has little regard for the moods of a traitor. For I have come to tell you that this very day you will be facing the Public Prosecutor himself, Citizen Fouquier-Tinville, in the court of the Republic, to answer for the crimes of your ancestors and – “

“Citizen Lapierre?” The girl timidly nudged the Frenchman’s arm and proferred him a folded sheet of paper. She was noticeably cleaner than her usual companions, and wore a red, white, and blue sash of a curious design wrapped about her slender throat. “This note has come for you, not five minutes ago.”

“A note?” Lapierre made a dismissive noise. “I am busy preparing Citoyen Carbonel for his trial. I have no time for notes, Citizeness. Be off with you, child, and leave me to my work!“

The girl – what was her name? Had Anthony heard it even once? – quailed, but her voice was surprisingly firm as she made a second attempt to deliver her missive. “I am sorry, Citoyen, but the one who gave it to me said it could not wait. He was most insistent that you read it as quickly as possible.”

Anthony watched, fascinated, as the agent of the Committee of Public Safety turned to face the messenger, a scowl upon his wolf-like features. “Whoever interrupts the business of the people plays with fire, and that includes your mysterious master. Begone, and tell the one who went you that Thibault Lapierre will not be distracted – “

A sound came from the corridor, a faint yet clear whistle. Another, strangely akin to the cry of a seagull, answered back, and shortly both were followed by the sound of booted feet striding briskly toward the cell. Anthony groped for his jacket, heart speeding up as he recognized the steady tread of marching soldiers. The note and the bouquet were tucked into his clothing, as nigh unto his heart as he could contrive, and he could not help but recall its message: _Be ready._

The girl straightened, jaw firm, eyes clear, and thrust the note directly into Citoyen Lapierre’s hands. There was no trace of fear or nerves about her now, and could that be the outline of a white star concealed in the blue folds of the scarf so carefully arranged? “It is signed by Citoyen Robespierre himself. Am I to tell him that you scorned his words?”

“Robespierre? What? What?” exclaimed Lapierre. He snarled a curse and tore the note open, eyes widening as he beheld what appeared to be the Incorruptible’s firm script upon the page. “An order remanding the prisoner to the custody of Citoyen-Captain Lenoir of the National Guard? Why? This is madness! Surely – “

A man in the uniform of the National Guard, ruddy-faced and thick bodied, appeared in the doorway at the head of a column of similarly accoutered men. His left eye was concealed beneath a worn patch, but the one visible gazed as stolidly at Lapierre and his prisoner as if he were regarding his choice of supper chop. “Citoyen Lapierre? I am Citoyen-Captain Lenoir. You have received the orders of Citoyen Robespierre, yes?”

“I have received orders, yes, but if they are from Citoyen Robespierre is news to me!” snapped Lapierre, baring stained teeth at the newcomer. The man was slightly stooped for all his bulk, and his uniform was tight across the midriff. “You cannot expect me to believe that such an important prisoner would be removed from jail on the very morning of his trial!”

“Believe as you wish. I have my orders, and so do you.” The captain shrugged as if this were of no concern to him, then gave a wet cough, wiped his mouth with a grimy handkerchief, and crooked a finger in Anthony’s direction. “Citoyen Carbonel?”

“My name is Stark, not Carbonel,” said Anthony. He smoothed his jacket into place and squared his shoulders. Whether this was indeed the moment for which he was to be ready, or not, he would face his fate as befitted a free American. “I am not my mother, nor my grandfather of cursed memory. I am my father’s son.”

“That is for the Republic to decide,” said the captain. He coughed again, this time staring directly at Anthony with a curiously intent gaze for such a slovely and uncaring excuse for an officer. “Whatever your name is, I am directed to bring you with me.”

“No, this is an outrage! Citoyen Robespierre is mistaken, this man is to be – “

Whatever else Thibault Lapierre would have said remained unspoken, as in the next second the girl messenger whipped off her scarf, kicked him hard in the shins, and clapped the sturdy fabric to his nose and mouth. An instant later Captain Lenoir’s hand replaced hers, and in a trice Lapierre sagged unconscious against the larger man. One of the soldiers, a thickly muscled man with a heavy mustache, snatched him up and bore him to Anthony’s pallet, there to be blindfolded, gagged, and secured hand and foot to what passed for bedposts. 

Anthony turned to Captain Lenoir, mouth open in shock. “What – “

“Is is not dawn?” said the voice he had heard in his dreams, and in the next instant Stephen Rogers, alive and well, had folded Anthony into his arms and all but buried his face in Anthony’s filthy hair, murmuring his name with the reverence usually accorded a prayer. The supposed National Guardsmen did not seem to notice, being intent upon their tasks, but the girl broke into a knowing grin. “Did I not tell you to be ready?”

“It is, and you did.” Anthony allowed himself a moment to press his cheek to Stephen’s, heedless of the muck and stubble of his disguise. “Lenoir’s” supposed paunch yielded as he pressed himself close, and he knew it now for a small bolster or folded cloth. “How – “

“We must away before Lapierre’s absence is noticed,” said Stephen. He signaled to one of his men, who would have been Private Monroe’s twin had he been cleaner and his hair brown, not red, and in the next moment Anthony was wrapped in the same warm, albeit slightly worn, cloak that had served him so well during America’s revolution. “Keep your head covered and your eyes on the ground. Quickly!”

In a trice they were in the corridor, the girl locking the heavy cell behind her and secreting the key in her bosom. “I must go, and quickly, lest Citoyenne Soleil realize my identity,” she said, grasping Stephen’s hand for a bare moment. “All shall be ready along the road. Safe travels!”

“Godspeed, my friend,” Stephen replied, and waited for her to disappear around the bend in the hall before turning to Anthony and his men. “A diversion, Private Dernier?”

“ _Mais oui,_ ,” said one of the soldiers, his teeth flashing white in his tanned face, and hurried off with one who looked remarkably like Sergeant Wilson. Stephen adjusted his eyepatch, flipped the hood of Anthony’s cloak over his head, and steered him in the opposite direction, his men falling into formation behind him. 

“Do not speak until I tell you, nor question what happens,” he said, and Anthony, safely hidden from view, could only nod. He had trusted Stephen with his life and the deepest secrets of his heart, and despite the lingering pain of the last lonely years, he would never cease to follow where his Achilles led.

The next little while was a blur; it seemed that whether as Roger Grant, Stephen Rogers, or Citizen-Captain Lenoir, the leader of their little band had acquired a network of allies and associates that even so great a spymaster as Walsingham might have envied. A sudden trash-fire in the courtyard allowed them to make their way to the street unsuspected, and thence to simple country cart, heaped high with provisions for Guardsmen on duty at the Tuileries. The cart, which was driven by an ebon black Creole who curiously resembled Private Jones, was so ordinary a sight that none might guess the traitor Carbonel was concealed in a false box beneath the sacks of vegetables and grain. 

Next was a closed carriage parked near an area of the Tuileries not devoted to munitions, its doors still marred with the scars left when an aristo’s arms had been chiseled off the side by a rude hand. This took a wandering route back toward the Ile-de-la-Cité, only to be exchanged in the shadow of the great cathedral church for yet another cart, this one laden with gunpowder and charges for the garrison at the Temple. This was in turn followed by an hour at the docks, then thirty minutes at what had been a church…. 

Anthony soon lost track of the journey, for there were many changes of vehicle for himself and disguise for his liberators. He uttered not a word, even when his escort had to tarry as a procession of the condemned was driven past on their way to an appointment with Sanson and his beloved Mam’zelle Guillotine, and did his best to attract no attention as he was spirited him from place to place. “Keep your eyes on the ground,” he had been told, and as he brought his hand to the little packet that had revived his hopes, he vowed to obey no matter what.

At last the weary, winding journey about Paris came to an end. The last conveyance, a simple hire-cab, had creaked to a halt near what appeared to be the rear of a fine townhouse of older design, and Anthony realized as the door opened and the driver helped him to the street that his escort had long since melted away into the seething crowds of Paris.

“What – “ he began, voice soft and labored from lack of use.

“Inside,” said Stephen, and before he could utter another word he had been guided through a door into a dark, dank room set with racks of rare and costly wines. Long, trembling fingers swept the hood back from his face, and a moment later he was once again wrapped in the arms of the one who was dearer to him than life itself, clinging and saying that dear name over and over. He shuddered as Stephen tossed the eyepatch aside and brought their mouths together, even as he had in their rude shelter during the war, and for long moments he allowed himself to forget the peril in the streets and the danger to them both in the touch of those firm lips to his own. 

“You live,” he said at last, gasping for air as Stephen took a step backwards and began to shed the uniform of Citizen-Captain Lenoir. “How can this be? Washington was in tears when he told me of your loss, Hamilton little better. I saw Barnes and Fury’s wounds myself, heard them tell the tale – “

Stephen paused in the act of exchanging the Frenchman’s filthy shirt for a clean one in the American style. “The tale is true, Anthony. I did fall on that awful day, and for aught anyone knew, I was forever lost.”

He took a breath to steady himself, and Anthony could not help but reach out to run a cautious hand over a form as perfect and lovely as a Roman statue. Stephen made a tiny sound at the touch and brought Anthony’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to his palm. “Know you of Ellenville? There are ice caverns there, places so deep and cold they would freeze the very fires of hell.”

“I have heard of them,” said Anthony, eyes fluttering closed at the affection conveyed in that simple gesture. “A curious natural phenomenon, as if a piece of the frozen North had been placed in America, even to the plants and animals. Why do you speak of this?”

“That is where I tracked Baron Strucker and his men, and where I fought with Johann Schmidt, struggling on the edge of the open gorge by the waterfall.” Stephen swallowed, and for an instant the memory of pure and unspeakable horror flashed in his clear blue eyes. “We grappled as he fought to activate an infernal machine, and we fell, me having the upper hand. Schmidt was swept away into the river, never to be seen again, and I thank God every day that his evil is gone from our world.”

He swallowed again, glancing briefly at the ceiling as the joists creaked from the passage of a servant overhead. The wine bottles all were marked with the heraldic device of the Morris family, and Anthony realized that they must be in the Legation itself. “I will not speak more of the battle, nor of Schmidt. What that man was capable of – it is beyond my power to describe.”

Anthony found a nearby barrel and eased himself onto it. He had spent much of the day crammed into boxes and hunkered down in bouncing carriages, and it was relief to stretch his limbs on solid ground. “I read some of Mulligan’s reports on Schmidt, so there is no need for more. What of you? You said you were lost. What do you mean?”

Stephen bowed his head, and for a moment Anthony thought he would not reply. “Schmidt was swept away, into the falls and downstream. I – I tumbled into the ice caves, and there I knew no more,” he said at last, sweeping his gleaming hair off his forehead. 

“What passed there, and how I lived, I cannot say. Abraham, the Oneida who made me as I am, said that the Great Spirit and Our Lord would protect and preserve me as long as my country had need of my services, and that is probably as good an explanation as any. All I know is that I lay in those caves, cold and insensible, for ten long years and more.”

Another sound from the ceiling, this one the light patter of a young girl going about her duties. Anthony pressed his right hand over his heart, which was beating much, much too fast. “Stephen. My God – if had I known I would have come for you, no matter the cost. To think of you there, alone in the dark – “

“But I am _not_ in the dark anymore,” said Stephen, smiling and reaching for Anthony once more. Anthony sagged against him, arms going about that strong body as if he could offer the other man his some spark of his own life force. “The weather warmed enough that I revived, and made my way to civilization. One of General Schuyler’s aides recognized me and bore me to his home, there to recover until the President could be informed of my survival.” 

Neither spoke for long moments, Stephen quiet as if remembering his ordeal, Anthony as he thanked whatever Deity there was for the miracle that had preserved his friend despite cold and injury and the passage of time. Finally he raised his head, and spoke.

“Why did you not contact me, even once? Or any of our old associates? I saw Colonel Fury and Secretary Hamilton just before I sailed for London, and as ever, we raised a glass to your memory. Had either of them known – “

“They did not,” said Stephen, very quietly. “They may now – Secretary Hamilton surely has been taken into the President’s confidence by this time – but when I first awoke? General Schuyler all but took to his bed from shock, and the President used language better suited to chimney sweep than a head of state. The time was not right to reveal my survival to the world, or so His Excellency said, and who am I to gainsay George Washington?”

Anthony could not help but nod in agreement, for all that a small part of him resented being kept in the dark. He, too, had served with the great Chief of the Continental Army, and knew well his ability to command obedience and loyalty. “And now? Enough men will recognize you that such a secret cannot remain long hidden.”

“Indeed, that is one of the reasons I was sent to France,” came the soft reply. “The President thought it best to ease me back into service here, where I could walk the streets without the mere sight of me attracting crowds of the curious and excitable. Besides, France is a dangerous place, where an innocent may be sent to the guillotine merely for upsetting the wrong man, and the President feared that Minister Morris and his staff might be in peril, diplomatic convention or no.”

“So he sent you here?”

Stephen nodded. “Along with a dozen or so men whose loyalty was beyond question. Sergeant Wilson, James Monroe’s kinsman Jack, Corporal Dugan – they know my name, and are sworn to secrecy until the time is right. So does the Minister himself, although I am not sure he believed me until he saw me drilling with my men and realized that even now I retain the physical gifts bestowed on me by the Oneida.

”I was supposed to remain quiet and inconspicuous, a mere functionary, and so I did at first. Then I saw the ranks of the condemned marched to the scaffold simply for having the wrong name, or wrong profession, or wrong political beliefs, and I could stay quiet no longer. The Minister introduced me to his friend Blakeney – “

“Blakeney? The fop? What good would that do?” said Anthony, puzzled. His friend Lord Hastings had introduced him to the lazy, pleasure-seeking baronet during his sojourn in London, and beyond a common interest in fashion Anthony could not see how a man such as Hastings could tolerate a dunce like Blakeney for more than a few hands of whist. “Why, the man’s own wife finds his stupidity amusing!”

“That is the whole point, for who would credit a lackwit with being the brains behind an effort to cheat the guillotine?” Stephen chuckled, eyes bright and clear at last, and oh, how Anthony had missed that merry laugh! “Sir Percy is far from stupid, believe me, and after Minister Morris introduced me to him, I offered my services. He has taken a humble roadside flower for his sigil, but I chose the white star that adorns our flag, for America must ever be a beacon of liberty and hope to the world.”

Anthony recalled the white stars he had seen adorning the Minister’s guests at that memorable night – had it been less than a week? – and the star on “Captain Grant’s” gorget. “You chose wisely, my friend. Wisely indeed.”

“So I have hoped,” murmured Stephen. “I cannot save all – your friend Lavoisier may be beyond help, although Blakeney has assured me that his wife will be safe no matter what. But there are others, men and women and children, who walk free in England or are on their way to America, there to live without fear. That is reward enough, even if it meant I had to conceal my identity from those dearest to me.”

Anthony frowned at the memory of his first encounter with Stephen, and how quickly elation had turned to ash when “Captain Grant” had disavowed any acquaintance. “That night when I presented myself at the Legation – first to see you, then for you to reject me – that was not easy to bear, Stephen. Not easy at all.“

Stephen’s face was the very picture of misery, and he pulled Anthony close, heedless of the rank odor that clung to his person after his captivity. “If only I could have revealed myself!” he cried, and any lingering anger Anthony might have borne dissolved at the quiet anguish in those words. “I had my orders, direct from the President, that none should know it unless it was a matter of life and death. I came close to disobeying the night of the ball, but – “

It was Anthony’s turn, then, to offer what comfort a single kiss could give. “I know now,” he said when they had parted. “It is enough, and more than enough, that you take me into your confidence now.”

Stephen smiled, his eyes all but shining with love and delight. “I – “

There was a faint sound from the stairs to the main level, and Stephen was on his feet with that flowing, almost catlike speed that had been the downfall of many a Redcoat. He positioned himself between Anthony and the newcomer, tall and defiant, one hand up raising the lid of a barrel in a makeshift shield to protect them both. “Who goes there?”

“Captain?” came a sweet, high voice, and Stephen relaxed as the pretty _tricoteuse_ moved quickly down the stairs. She now wore a dispatch rider’s suit, down to the finely cut breeches and neatly tied stock, and with her hair pulled smoothly back she could easily pass for a boy. “Oh! _Pardon_ , I did not mean to interrupt!”

“No forgiveness is needed, Mademoiselle,” said Stephen, bowing slightly in her direction. “Mademoiselle Lily Charretier, this is Mr. Anthony Stark, my dear friend and companion from the war. Anthony, this is – “

“Citizeness Viellesse’s friend, or so I once thought,” said Anthony. He nodded as the girl went to “parade rest,” head up and back straight as you please. “I see that you have your own secrets.”

“As long as this Revolution claims the lives of its own, yes,” she said, eyes alight with the fervor of youth and passion for justice. “My old _Tante Gabrielle_ went to the guillotine merely for refusing to wear a tricolor after the death of the King, and I swore I would not let another innocent so suffer. Captain Grant found me afterwards and offered his aid, and we have worked together ever since.”

“With excellent results, I might add,” said Stephen, regarding the girl with the affection of an older brother to a beloved sister. “Lily is our swiftest courier, and can go places and do things that a man would never contemplate. She was the perfect choice to convey the note from ‘Robespierre’ that distracted our friend Lapierre this morning.”

The girl grinned at that, and Anthony sensed that she had no love for either Citizen Lapierre or his friend Citizeness Soleil. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark. I am glad to see you well.”

“I might say the same, Mademoiselle,” said Anthony, bowing over a hand as strong and callused as any man’s. “It seems I owe my life to you as well as to Captain Rog - Grant.”

Stephen donned his uniform jacket and began to tie his stock, the man of passion yielding in an instant to the man of arms. “I will not rest easy until you are safely in England, well away from the reach of the Committee of Public Safety. Lily, if you could the appropriate arrangements – “

“Already done, _mon capitane,_ ” she replied, holding up a sealed leather bag. “Minister Morris has signed the appropriate papers identifying Mr. Stark as a member of the staff of this Legation, and thus under American protection. You need only pick a time to depart, and both of you shall be on your way to London, Mr. Stark with the diplomatic pouch, Captain Grant for a brief personal leave.”

Anthony leaned against his friend, grateful beyond measure that safety lay at last within his grasp. Stephen slipped an arm about him to take his full weight, as it was clear that Anthony was on the verge of succumbing to exhaustion and ill treatment. “Might I bathe and rest for a little while before we leave? Normally I would not complain, but if I am to pretend to be one of America’s riders, I should at least be _clean_.”

Stephen swept him up into his great arms at that, heedless of Mademoiselle Charretier’s affectionate giggle, and began to carry him up the stairs. “A bath you shall have, and sleep, and a good hot meal. You are on America soil, and none shall disturb your rest while I am here. You have my word on that.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Anthony murmured, and let sleep claim him at last.


	13. Epilogue:  "The Rest is Silence"

As promised, the trip to Le Havre was swift and sure; between the clever work of Mademoiselle Charretier and the security provided by their diplomatic passports, the days spent on the road were quiet and free of danger. The English yacht _Day Dream_ lay at anchor near the beach, and scant hours later Anthony and Stephen were safely ensconced at the Fisherman's Rest, where old Jellyband and his daughter Sally made them kindly welcome.

What passed between them that first night, when the ale had been drunk and the boards put up, cannot be ours to know. These men, who had suffered so cruelly at the hands of Fate, surely deserve what privacy they could snatch during times of peril unknown to those of us who dwell on Columbia's kindly shores. It is known, however, that the Captain escorted Mr. Stark safely to London and remained with him until he had fully recovered from his ordeal, and that he visited the engineer as often as his duties at the American Legation permitted once Mr. Stark had removed himself to the countryside.

As for what befell the rest of the figures in this tale, history records the following:

Sergeant Wilson remained in the American Army, where his intelligence, ability, and personal connections to President Washington allowed him to overcome the disability of his origins and rise to the officer corps. He was the first member of his race to receive a commission, and when he retired he married Mademoiselle Lily Charretier, who emigrated to the United States soon after the rise of Napoleon convinced her that her fortune lay elsewhere. Their descendants continue to serve America well, and set a shining example of devotion and patriotism to all.

Gouverneur Morris stepped down as America's representative to France in 1794, eventually returning to his native land four years later. He married late and happily, and occupied his final years collecting antiquarian artifacts of the early years of the Republic. 

Thibault Lapierre, who had tied his fortunes to the Jacobins and the Revolution, did not survive the fall of Citizen Robespierre. Although the exact details of his final days are lost, he was found guilty of treason and guillotined alongside the ci-devant Public Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville and his confederates in May of 1795.

Soleil de Viellesse was more fortunate, having formed a personal connection to a young artillery officer on the staff of the Corsican Bonaparte. Her subsequent adventures as officer's wife, noblewoman of the Empire, and “Summer Duchess” of Grand Fenwick are beyond the scope of this narrative, but her life was never less than colorful and full of incident.

Anthony Stark remained in Britain as a personal guest of Sir Percy Blakeney until the summer of 1794, conducting research into rare metals and gracing Lady Blakeney's brilliant salon. He returned to the United States soon after the Thermidorian Reaction restored sanity to France, and after a brief sojourn among the Oneida to restore his fragile health, he spent several years in Washington assisting in the construction of the new seat of government. Soon after the turn of the next century, however, he determined to devote himself entirely to his own work, and so returned to his natal city, where his money and sense of public service proved of inestimable benefit to the future metropolis.

There he was soon joined by his dear friend and companion Stephen Rogers. This gallant soldier, whose seeming return from the dead in 1794 caused great excitement throughout the United States, had continued to serve Presidents Washington and Adams as a personal agent on behalf of the United States and her citizens. He chose to retire shortly after Mr. Stark's return to New York, not long after the election of President Jefferson. By then a colonel, he was to all appearances as youthful and vigorous as he had been twenty years prior, and the regiment known as the “Old Guard” held a testimonial dinner for him that was attended by most of Society. Thereafter he eschewed politics, excepting only his membership in the Society of the Cincinnati, for a quiet life with his friend, and achieved notable success as an artist, particularly the famous series of portraits of the Founding Fathers that grace the American Capitol.

Later in life these two men extended their patronage to the New York Orphan Asylum Society founded by Mrs. Hamilton, widow of Alexander. From there they plucked a fatherless lad, Peter, and raised him as tenderly as if he had been their own kin. Their lives were long and happy, though not without incident, and their devotion to each other became a byword for friendship that truly exemplified the words of Scripture:

“They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.”

 

Finis.


	14. Notes

First and foremost, a huge shout-out to my collaborator, Woad, for her magnificent art and for her enthusiasm for this story as it unfolded. She was a dream to work with, and I couldn't be happier with the results.

Second, thanks and all credit to Baroness Emmuska Orczy, creator of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This character, who was the inspiration for all the other “socialites with a secret identity” from Zorro to Batwoman, is widely considered the first superhero, so it's only fitting that this AU be set in the same world. I co-wrote a [ gaming supplement based on the Pimpernel series](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/502879.GURPS_Scarlet_Pimpernel) many years ago – maybe this was fated?

Third, a few notes on history and characters:

Gouverneur Morris was indeed America's Minister Plenipotentiary to France during the Reign of Terror. A cultured and intelligent man, he was appalled by the violence and was involved in at least one attempt to rescue Marie Antoinette. His physical injuries – a crippled arm and an amputated leg – did not prevent him from having a string of lovers throughout his life, including Madame Adele de Flauhaut.

The American Legation was indeed on the Rue de la Planche, across the river from the Tuileries I have been unable to find a picture of it, though, so whether it actually had a balustrade is pure speculation on my part.

Antoine Lavoisier, the brilliant chemist, is one of the most tragic figures of the French Revolution. Intelligent, mild-mannered, and generous to all, he ended on the guillotine due to his involvement with a common tax collection method known as the _ferme générale_. His wife, Marie-Anne, survived the Revolution and edited his works for publication.

“Ça ira,” one of the great patriotic songs of France, takes its title from Benjamin Franklin's attempts to reassure the French government that the American Revolution would succeed: “It'll be fine, it'll be fine.” It's surprisingly catchy, as you can hear from [this version by Edith Piaf.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pZHXr4FE44)

The Battle of the Kegs was a real incident, and I borrowed from the ballad by Frances Hopkinson for “The Ballad of Captain America.” Unfortunately, the American attack as recorded by history failed, probably because neither Anthony Stark nor Stephen Rogers was involved.

Neither body armor nor defensive items such as shields were used in 18th century warfare. The closest I could come is a [gorget,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorget) or ceremonial neck ornament worn by some officers as a sign of rank.

“Ouqanda” is of course Wakanda. 

Ellenville, New York, is a real town in Ulster County. It is home to a rare phenomenon, an open fault line with ice caves that remain frozen year round, and a corresponding microclimate.

The great Oneida leader John Skenandoa (better known today as Shenandoah) was a valuable American ally during the Revolution. A baptized Christian, like many of his people, he sent a shipment of fine white corn to feed the starving soldiers at Valley Forge, along with one of his one people, Polly Cooper, to show the Continentals how to cook it properly. Cooper became good friends with George Washington's wife Martha, who gave Cooper a silk shawl as a sign of gratitude. The shawl descended in her female line, and is proudly preserved at the Oneida Indian Nation museum at the Turning Stone Casino in upstate New York.

Alert readers will note the following appearances by Marvel characters who are neither Tony Stark nor Steve Rogers:

Sergeant Wilson=Sam Wilson.  
Private Monroe=Jack Monroe  
Thibault Lapierre=Tiberius Stone  
Lily Charretier=Sharon Carter  
Soleil de Viellesse=Sunset Bain  
Private Jones=Gabriel Jones

Abraham the Shaman=Abraham Erskine  
Private Dernier=Jacques Dernier


End file.
